


Three Dreams in Which I Fail to Have Sex With Emilia Clarke

by DanyKinkFic



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Original Work
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Comedy, F/M, Gen, Nonsense, Sex Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 10:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14376525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanyKinkFic/pseuds/DanyKinkFic
Summary: Emilia Clarke is my first and only celebrity crush. I entertain no delusions that I will ever be with this woman. My subconscious insists on rubbing this in my face.





	Three Dreams in Which I Fail to Have Sex With Emilia Clarke

**Dream #1**

I’m watching them film a _Game of Thrones_ episode in my parents’ backyard. The scene involves Daenerys and Jorah Mormont coming down the driveway in a white Cadillac Escalade, because it’s also a _Sopranos_ episode. (Not a crossover. They are filming one hour of content and passing it off as an episode of two separate shows, hoping nobody notices.)

Millie can't drive to save her life. (I read somewhere that her friends and family call her Millie. Having had three failed sex dreams about her, I consider myself basically family.) She keeps fish-tailing, even though the pavement is perfectly dry. Jorah Mormont keeps trying to steer for her, but she won't let him. Eventually, the director gets fed up and points to an old Volvo my parents used to own. 

> Director: You know what? This whole scene should be about Volvos. Let’s stop filming, get as many Volvos as we can, and make a whole Stonehenge of Volvos in the backyard.
> 
> Jorah Mormont: (I know the actor’s real name. I simply don’t care. He’s Jorah Mormont.) Yes, please, Jesus Christ.

Still in costume, and convinced she’d done an awesome job, Millie and her assistant are standing around in my parents’ front hallway, shooting the shit. This is my opportunity.

> Me: (sidling up all nonchalant) You know, my sister is really sick, and it would be awesome if you could visit her in the hospital. (I don’t have a sister. My plan is to wander around the ICU, pick a comatose woman who looks vaguely like me, then cry a bit, scooch her aside, and fuck in the hospital bed.)
> 
> Millie: (gives me the once-over) Ehhhhhh, I don’t really know what my schedule is like. I’ve got a lot going on. Talk to my assistant. (gets the fuck out of there)
> 
> Assistant, who may or may not have been Missandei: I know what you’re trying to do, you know.
> 
> Me: What?! No! What kind of psychopath would have meaningless sex under false pretenses next to a comatose person in a hospital?!
> 
> Assistant: Right, sure. Listen. She only ovulates once a year, but when she does, she spits out 300 eggs at a time, like a sea turtle. That’s your shot. I’m telling you this because you seem like a cool dude, and if a stranger is going to randomly mount her on the sidewalk, he should be a cool dude.

I consider it, but decide that because of my insufficient vacation days and the Dollar's weakness against the Pound, it’s simply not worth it to lurk in the bushes behind her for a year, waiting for her to squat on the sidewalk and lay a bunch of eggs. Mildly disappointed, but comfortable I’ve made the right decision, I go upstairs to take a nap.

I wake up to maniacal cackling. Millie is doing donuts in my parents’ old Volvo, ripping up their grass and vegetable garden, and knocking over their decorative sundial. 

> Millie: (to me, looking out the window) Ha haaaaaa, bitch! I fucked up your pussy-ass sundial!

I jump out the window, landing on my feet like NBD.

> Me: (to director) If she keeps this up, we’re going to have to do one of those montages where we clean everything up real fast before my parents get home.
> 
> Millie: (still doing donuts) Shoulda thought of that before you bought a sundial, _bitch!_

The director says her contract allows her to be a raging asshole when the work involves trespassing in private homes. It’s a union thing. Jorah Mormont finally snaps. He tells everyone to shut the fuck up, he’ll get us all Chinese food and call it even, and that’s _final._

* * *

**Dream #2**

I’m on a plane, in an aisle seat. My wife is next to me, in the window seat. We are in First Class, but the interior has a distinct 80s decor. Millie sits in the window seat on the other side of the row. An old lady sits in the aisle seat next to her. I point out Millie to my wife.

> Wife: This’ll be hilarious. Do it. (This is my wife’s real-life attitude toward me trying to fuck Millie.)
> 
> Me: Nah, I don’t want to bother her, it’s rude.
> 
> Wife: Do it now, or I’m revoking the Get Out of Jail Free card.
> 
> Me: (to Millie, ignoring the old lady between us) You know, you’d make a sexy-ass Mary Poppins. (This is objectively true, and with very little change to her natural appearance or demeanor.)
> 
> Millie: (mildly annoyed, but polite) Thanks, I get that all the time.
> 
> Me: One Mary Poppins lap dance, please.
> 
> Millie: (more annoyed, less polite) I don’t really do that for strangers.
> 
> Me: C’mon, one quick dance.
> 
> Millie: I said, I don’t--
> 
> Wife: (pointing a rolled-up magazine at her) Do the _fucking_ dance! (I love this woman.)
> 
> Millie: Ugh, fine. My umbrella is in the bathroom. Hold on.

She goes up front to the bathroom. I notice for the first time that she’s dressed exactly like a slutty Mary Poppins. I also realize, despite the dream, that it’s highly unusual to store one’s umbrella in an airplane bathroom. This clearly warranted a joke, but none was readily apparent.

The image pops into my mind of her hanging upside down from the ceiling like a bat, holding an umbrella while pee bounces around the room like in outer space. Before the joke is fully baked, the old lady warns me that I have five seconds left. I get flustered.

Millie comes back with her umbrella. _A Spoonful of Sugar_ comes on from nowhere, because of course it does. A consummate professional, she plasters on a smile and starts the lap dance in earnest. It's great, but I'm still convinced I need to come up with a joke.

> Me: _Uhhhhhhhh, WHAT, do you piss upside down where you're from?!_
> 
> Millie: What?!

That kills the mood. She stops, and gives me a disgusted look. The old lady looks at me apologetically, then at Millie.

> Old Lady: I'm sorry. I made him think he was on a game show.
> 
> Wife: Oh, Jesus, he falls for that every time.
> 
> Millie: (sighs) Men, right?

* * *

  **Dream #3**

It’s a rainy night in London. Millie is at an ATM outside a sketchy building, wearing heels and a short skirt. I'm standing behind her, blatantly ogling. She turns around.

> Millie: What are you doing?
> 
> Me: Staring at your legs and ass.
> 
> Millie: You seem cool, wanna come to my house?
> 
> Me: Ummmmm, yes?

We get to her house, which is an abandoned factory. Not a trendy converted loft, mind you. A filthy, dimly lit factory, with broken machines all over the place, and rainwater pouring in through the roof.

> Millie: Want some breakfast?
> 
> Me: I thought that came afterward, but sure.
> 
> Millie: _Tee hee hee!_ Wait here.

She goes to the stove. I wait at the kitchen island, which may have been a conveyor belt, while she fries up some bacon.

> Millie: While you’re here, can you fix my car?
> 
> Me: Ah, so _that’s_ what this is about.
> 
> Millie: No, no, we’ll do the thing you think it’s about, too. Just fix my car first.

In the corner is a teal BMW convertible; a really nice car, if you lived in South Beach in 2003. The doors, hood, trunk, and drop top are all opening and closing at random. Millie explains that it’s not just a car, you see. It’s also a puzzle. You have to figure out exactly how to set the air conditioning and radio, or everything keeps opening up while you’re driving.

> Me: Why did you even buy that thing?
> 
> Millie: The dealer made it sound really cool, and I wanted to be popular.

Before I can start fixing the car, some friends of hers materialize from the shadows, probably smelling bacon. They are all pretentious, artsy-fartsy shitbags.

> Hipster Friend: Tryna fuck her?
> 
> Me: Yup.
> 
> Hipster Friend: What do you do?

My job title makes me sound richer than I am.

> Hipster Friend: (disapprovingly) So you’re rich.
> 
> Friend Of Color: Don’t tell her that.
> 
> Gay Friend: She _haaaaaaaates_ rich people.
> 
> Me: I’m pretty sure she doesn’t hate rich people. Also, I’m pretty sure you assholes are only friends with her because she’s rich, and she probably gets a bunch of free shit she doesn’t want, so she tosses it to the nearest hanger-on like bread at a duck pond.

They all feign wounded outrage. Millie turns around, with her bacon.

> Millie: Did you fix my car?
> 
> Me: No.
> 
> Millie: Well, you can’t have breakfast until you fix it.

I try to fix her car. It’s hard. I can’t figure it out, and decide I can’t be a pushover or she’ll lose respect for me. 

> Me: You didn’t tell me your car was also a puzzle. (She did, though.) Take your car and shove it up your ass.
> 
> Millie: Fine! I will! But first you have to take my friends to school, on the bus, and then drive back in my car. (It is implicitly understood that the car would drive itself to school and meet me when I get off the bus.)

At this point it’s clear that I am not going to fuck this woman, but what can I do? _Someone_ needs to chaperone her healthy adult friends to school. So we ride to school in San Francisco city buses, because it’s morning now, and London has become San Francisco. Her Rubik’s Car is waiting for me at their dingy high school.

Midway back, the hood opens and blocks my view, and the roof simultaneously opens and turns the car into some kind of parasailing thing. I’ve had enough, and would not be made a fool of. So I decide to steal her car and drive it to work. When I get there, I find we’re being audited by the government. Our IT guy has the auditor sitting in one of those arcade games that’s set up to look like a racecar. He’s strapped in like a roller coaster, wearing a virtual reality helmet.

> Me: What the fuck are you doing?! He’ll shut us down!
> 
> IT Guy: No, no, no, think about it. If he thinks it’s a race, he’ll read through the files real quick, and miss all the bad stuff.
> 
> Me: Holy shit, that’s brilliant! I’m going for a coffee break.

I’m in the break room, sipping my coffee. Millie comes in, scowls at me, and starts taking coffee mugs from the cupboard and putting them in a canvas tote bag.

> Me: Those are company mugs, you know.
> 
> Millie: You steal my shit, I steal yours.

She drops a bunch of pennies. She’s standing right there, paralyzed with fear for some reason. I start laughing like a crazy person and picking them up off the floor.

> Millie: No, no, no!! _Oh my God_ what are you _doing?!_
> 
> Me: That’s right, bitch! I’m a racecar driver, and racecar drivers always win.

* * *

 Your move, Millie.


End file.
